Letters Across the Sea by Genevieve Graham (spicy books to read .txt) 📕

Ian assured me that he was likely the safest out of all my brothers, with the possible exception of Mark. He handed me an article about Hong Kong, and I was relieved to read that no one was overly concerned about any kind of military action happening there. From what I read, even if they did decide to invade, the Japanese were not great fighters, and there weren’t many of them anyway. Most were caught up in a war with China that had been raging for four years already. It was understood the Canadian and Indian forces would easily fight them off.

A steaming cup appeared magically on my desk. “Thought you could use a drink,” Ian said. “Sorry it’s not something with a little more zip to it.”

I peered into the cup, impressed. “Is that tea?”

“I have a secret stash. Don’t tell anyone.”

I closed my eyes and took a fragrant sip, then smiled up at him. “I won’t tell a soul.”

Since my brothers had enlisted, Ian’s friendship had been a real comfort. I knew he was interested in me romantically, but despite my attraction to him, I was maintaining a safe distance. I didn’t want to rush into anything. Once in a while he took me to dinner, but he seemed to understand that my heart wasn’t in it and was satisfied with my company. He never pressed for anything beyond friendship.

Our mothers, though, saw our relationship through much more optimistic lenses. I warned Mum not to start making wedding plans anytime soon, because my job was the most important thing. She pretended to agree.

Ian leaned over my shoulder. “What are you working on?”

In the last year, I’d begun reporting on some actual stories, but it was still mostly local news. And while Mr. Hindmarsh, in his usual, emotionless voice, said he liked my work, they never added up to more than three paragraphs, and were never printed before page thirty.

I rolled my eyes. “An argument at a church bazaar that led to fisticuffs, if you can believe it. Honestly, Ian. Is that really news?”

He grimaced. “You know what I think, Molly. You got to stand up for yourself in here. Write something that matters to you.”

I nodded, drumming my fingers on the desk. Every page in the paper was full of stories from the war, but every day I was reminded that the city’s own problems hadn’t gone away. I saw people lined up for hours for rations, and the homeless population kept growing. I pictured Mr. Rabinowitz, hunched in the icy wind, and an idea began to materialize. The more I thought about what I could write, the more I felt the almost forgotten thrill of a story rising within me.

Everyone had a story. What was his?

“Free for dinner tonight?” Ian asked.

“Not this time, I’m afraid. There’s something I need to do.” I gulped down the tea and grabbed a pad and pencil, nearly forgetting my coat in my rush.

The corner of his mouth curled. “Atta girl. I can’t wait to read it.”

I hustled outside, questions popping into my mind. Why had Mr. Rabinowitz left Poland, and when? What had life been like for him when he’d arrived here? How had he met his wife? I’d only seen her once or twice when I was little, but I vaguely recalled her thick grey curls and wide smile. I tried to remember what Mr. Palermo had said about why she’d died. Was it cancer? Suddenly, I wanted so many answers, and I couldn’t get there fast enough.

The wind had died down, and the day was warmer by the time I spotted Mr. Rabinowitz huddled on his regular bench outside Palermo’s. Before he could spot me, I ducked into the shop.

“Molly!” Mr. Palermo looked up from the counter, and I noticed his moustache was almost pure white now. “How are you? Your father says you’re working at the Star? Congratulations.”

I smiled. I’d always liked him. “I am, thanks in part to your lovely letter of reference. How are you doing?”

He gestured at the store behind him, slightly fuller than it had been on my last day of work, despite today being late fall. “Things are slowly recovering, I dare say. It’s a shame that it takes a war to make things better, though.”

He asked about my father, then about my brothers, and we commiserated over the state of the world, then I paid Mr. Palermo for the best of his slightly soft apples.

“For a friend,” I told him as I headed back outside.

Mr. Rabinowitz beamed at me before he even saw the apple. Then he looked surprised. “What’s this? Oh, what a treat. Thank you.” He took a bite, making a satisfied kind of humming noise while he chewed.

“Mr. Rabinowitz, I’m wondering if I can ask you a favour.”

“Ask away,” he said, taking another bite.

I fought the urge to pluck a tiny bit of apple from his beard. “I don’t know if I told you before, but I write for the Star.”

“Eh?”

“The newspaper. The Star.”

“Ah yes? Good for you.”

“I’m interested in speaking with people in the neighbourhood. Doing interviews. And I am wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”

“Oh, ho! You’ll make me famous, will you?” He chuckled. “Nothing interesting about me, but I’ll answer what I can.”

“Let’s start with where you were born,” I said, pulling out my notepad.

“Bobrowniki, Poland, in 1875,” he said. My mind clicked through the numbers, astonished. Mr. Rabinowitz was only sixty-six, but he looked so much older. “My papa had a farm,” he said. “I looked after the chickens. It was my job to watch out for those chicks. So sweet, those little yellow things, and their mothers all talking kuk kuk kuk.”

As I asked more about his childhood, I realized that his memories from long ago were fresh in his mind.

“Did you fight in the Great War?” I asked eventually.

He waved a hand, dismissing the question. “Meh. I don’t talk about that.”

“I’m curious, though. Can you tell me a little?”

A slight